


Hostage of War

by lady_of_clunn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, F/M, Minor Character Death, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_of_clunn/pseuds/lady_of_clunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the brink of extinction, the leaders of Light and Dark invoke an age-old custom to secure an armistice. For some, peace will come at a great expense.</p><p>Written for Draco Big Bang 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A big thank you to Softobsidian74 for alpha reading and feedback and to Sempra for the fantastic beta!

A cold wind blew across the ravaged countryside not far from Hogwarts. Hermione Granger pressed her hands into the small of her back, bending backward to relieve the ache that had become a constant reminder of her work. She could have levitated the dead bodies over the battle field, but she felt it would be dehumanising them to disentangle their limbs with magic as if they were ragdolls.

She carefully extricated arms and legs from the piles, straightened appendages and repaired robes torn to shreds to give the departed a modicum of dignity. Then, and only then, would she levitate them into the designated grave and move on to the next.

Looking around she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing blood over her face. She had no more tears.

Resigned Hermione bent down to remove a hand from another’s throat and placed it on the opposite shoulder. The other hand still held his wand and she left it there when she moved it across the body to the other shoulder. She did not know the man, but he had died fighting, as had so many others.

The last battle had cost so many lives that in the end, when the leaders called to retreat, only a few dozen on either side had stared at each other in bewilderment. Hermione had kept a record of the numbers for each battle. There was nothing to worry about anymore, really.

In the next, maybe the one after the next battle, wizards in Britain would be extinct.

 

***

 

The Great Hall of Hogwarts held what must have been the entire wizarding population of the nation supporting the Light. The hall was not empty by any means, all tables were full, every single seat taken, but that it was able to accommodate half the magical populous of the British Isle, was frightening.

Hermione rested her head on her hand, her elbow propped up on the table, eating her stew. Her parents had raised her better than that but she was too tired to care or even notice.

A firm hand landed on her shoulder, the grasp not hurting her, yet it was clear that it was a command rather than a request.

“Miss Granger, a word if you please.”

She looked into the Headmaster’s gray face and nodded, taking a last spoonful of stew into her mouth while rising to her feet.

She followed him through the battle ravaged castle, many paintings mourning the destruction of their homes, looking pitiful trying to avoid the slashes in their canvasses.

The Headmaster did not direct her to his office as she had expected, but led her further and further up, climbing endless stairs until he pushed open the doors to the platform on top of the astronomy tower.

The sun was setting. It was August, the days long and the weather beautiful. The waning sunlight painted red, pink and orange hues over an otherwise clear blue sky.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the battlement, silently observing the grounds and observing her watching the sunset. The soil was upturned and there was an eerie silence from the forbidden forest, as if all magical creatures had fled their habitat.

“It is truly beautiful.”

Hermione nodded, waiting.

“We have lost too many, Miss Granger.”

“It is the end, isn’t it, Headmaster?”

He turned to her sharply, suddenly fire and passion in his eyes and features. Hands lined with age gripped her upper arms so hard, pain was shooting through her.

“It does not have to be! Miss Granger, we can prevent this. We can prevent our society from vanishing; we can prevent becoming what we already are to most of the world, a legend.” He let go of her arms and turned back to the quickly darkening landscape. “Doing so would involve great personal sacrifice, Miss Granger. Great personal sacrifice.”

When she remained silent, he sighed.

“I know we are demanding so much of our young generation, to fight a war that had been started such a long time ago. So much weight on shoulders so fragile. So much horror for eyes so young.”

He stroked her tangled hair.

“I assume you have read Muggle history?”

She nodded hesitantly. History was a broad subject.

“Miss Granger, when countries, tribes, nations at war came to the point that neither could win, when a truce was essential to let the people, the economy and the land,” he gestured to the torn soil and ripped trees, “recover and regroup, do you know what has been done for centuries? In both the magical as well as the Muggle realm?”

Hermione could think of a number of things but could not find one that would apply to their situation. With a furrowed brow, she waited for the Headmaster to elaborate, afraid of what she might hear.

“Hostages are exchanged, Miss Granger.”

Her face fell into an unreadable blank mask and her mind rushed through historical facts, trying to analyze what this would mean. Julius Cesar, King Alfred’s wife, King Richard the Lionheart, Vlad Dracul...

“Of course...” her voice sounded flat in the silence of the night.

“Hostages have to be important figures for either side,” her first in command hurried to say.

“Naturally...”

“It could not be Harry, of course.”

“Of course...” she echoed.

“Miss Granger, the hostages would be treated very well. There are strong laws and strong magic protecting a hostage of war.”

She did not reply.

“We need time, Miss Granger, or we, as a society will cease to exist.”

“How long?”

“At least two years.”

He did not try to convince her that two years would pass quickly.

“When do I have to go?”

The old wizard sank to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his, kissing them. His head was bowed and she could only hear his tears.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. Thank you.”

 

***

 

“Rise, my most trusted servants.”

Lucius Malfoy, Esmeralda Zabini, Claudius Nott and Pendragon Parkinson rose from their kneeling position before the throne-like seat of the Dark Lord.

“Our losses have been substantial.”

“So have been the losses on the other side, my Lord. Just one more strike and victory will be yours!” The female voice from the side of the room sounded crazed, high pitched and stumbled over her own words.

Only Bellatrix Lestrange was reckless enough in her insane devotion to her Master to overlook his solemn mood. She crawled to his feet after the effect of the Cruciatus curse would allow her to and kissed his extended dragon hide boot, thanking him for the attention.

“As I said. Our losses have been substantial. In order to rid our world of all the impure specimen that call themselves wizards and witches, we need resources. Both monetary and in numbers.”

Lucius Malfoy sighed inwardly. Being singled out at a meeting was always a bad sign. Being singled out when the Dark Lord spoke of monetary funds was a very bad sign for his vaults.

“Dumbledore has approached me. The light is weak. They are grovelling at our feet, afraid to die.”

Uneasy glances were exchanged among the ranks. Each and every one of them had lost a brother, a cousin, a wife to the merciless battles.

“We are going to call an armistice. In that period, we will triple our efforts in our preparations while the light will waste their time on infrastructure. At the end of the two year period, there will be no stopping us. We will wipe them out.” 

The Dark Lord rose from his ornate armchair and turned to leave, black robes lined in scarlet trailing behind. 

“Lucius, for the span of two years, you will take Hermione Granger into your household. Esmeralda, you will house Ginevra Weasley. Pendragon, Claudius, prepare to hand over your children to the Light.” 

He strode to a high door in the wall close to the throne, shocked faces on all his disciples in his wake. “You are dismissed.”

 

***

 

“Draco!”

His father had been summoned earlier in the evening and he had not expected him to return any time soon.

A swift return could mean very bad news, indeed.

“Yes, father.”

Lucius nodded curtly at his only son, shedding his Death Eater robes and throwing them with a flourish into the air, only to be caught by a house elf that popped into the room for the mere fraction of a second.

He set his silver mask on a side table with a careless motion and drew a hand over his face.

“Narcissa!”

His wife swept into the study moments later, touching her cheek to his and kissing the air.

“Sit, both of you.”

Lucius started pacing the length of the room and back before coming to an abrupt halt in front of his waiting family.

“The Dark Lord and Dumbledore have declared an armistice,” Lucius announced.

The statement drew gasps from both his wife and his son.

“You know what happens in case of an armistice. We will exchange hostages.”

Narcissa’s gaze flew to her son, a hand pressed to her mouth and worry written all over her face.

Draco sat up straight and hoped that his father did not realise how hard his heart had started beating.

“Will I be sent away, father?”

Lucius looked at him startled.

“What? No. No, but we will be having company for the next two years or so.”

This time, Narcissa launched herself at her son, enveloping him in a crushing hug, kissing his hair.

He let her hold him for several seconds before he carefully disentangled from his mother’s arms. She sniffed a little and sat down next to him on the sofa.

“Who? Who has the Light decided to hand over?”

“That Granger girl.”

Draco was on his feet before he had registered his own action.

“The Mudblood? Father, surely you jest!”

“Sit down, Draco. You know me better than that.” He took a swig out of his crystal tumbler. “We will be obliged to tolerate her here, moreover, treat her ...” his face adopted a pained expression, “as an equal.”

Draco looked on in horror.

“A girl.” Narcissa’s voice sounded dreamy. “I always wanted a little girl.”

With a snort, Draco went to the liquor cabinet and poured some cognac into a wide, balloon-shaped glass.

“She is not a doll for you to play with, mother. More the studious type.”

“Every girl wants to be pretty, Draco,” his mother said with conviction.

Draco could imagine Granger to recoil from the word pretty as something entirely unnecessary and even undesirable.


	2. Exchanges

The weather had changed from as hot as summer can be in Scotland to cool enough to warrant the need for pullovers to ward off gusts of wind. No woollen cloaks, yet, but from one day to the next the year was waning, nature readying for the withdrawal of the resting period of winter.

Hermione rubbed over her fingers that were feeling stiff from being exposed to the cold wind. It was as if her surroundings were mirroring her feelings inside.

Agreeing to deliver herself into the hands of dark wizards, Death Eaters, in order to save her world had been one quick, heroic gesture full of foolish Gryffindor bravery. Now that she was standing on top of a hill not far from Hogwarts, her trunk next to her, she felt as if she was awaiting her death sentence, not the verdict as to where she would spend the next two years.

_Please not Voldemort himself. Pleasepleaseplease._

She could hear Ginny sobbing quietly into her father’s dark brown robes. A while ago she had averted her gaze to afford the Weasleys a bit of privacy.

With her parents in Australia, there was nobody here for her final goodbye besides Dumbledore.

The group of order members had arrived very early at the designated meeting point. Huddling together in smaller family groups, Hermione and Dumbledore stood apart and solitary. Arthur and Molly Weasley were trying to console their youngest child, and Mrs. Longbottom, clad in her finest attire, complete with a formidable witches’ hat decorated with flowers and feathers in shades of red stood proudly next to Neville.

As per tradition, it should have been Hermione’s family to accept a hostage from the other side in return for their daughter.

There was a tiny stab to her heart, when she thought about her oblivious parents, working hard on making their new dental practice near the Sydney harbour a success. Even if this war ever ended, Hermione doubted that she would have the heart to take that new life from them and bring them new worries and again a world they could not understand.

_Why did it have to be so cold?_

Hermione was glad that she had braided the mass of her hair into a tight French braid as she had become accustomed to ever since the fighting started. At least she would not end up making a fool of herself by battling her hair after the wind had whipped her curls all around her face.

With loud cracks announcing Apparition, several cloaked figures appeared about twenty metres from where their group was standing.

Voldemort, in the centre stood out, the others wore identical black Death Eater robes and silver masks.

At a sign from their Lord, the others pushed back hoods and removed masks to reveal their faces.

Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione had trouble breathing and Ginny’s sobs had gone eerily quiet.

The petite black-haired witch next to him was unknown to Hermione and she could not assess whether she would be the lesser of two evils. Blaise Zabini was standing at her left, so she was probably his mother and he was representing the Head of the family. Hermione thought she had heard that Blaise’s father had died when Blaise was still very young. Or was he a hostage like her? Theodore Nott and his father were also there. Maybe one of them would go to live with the Notts? Hermione did not know anything about them besides the fact that they served Voldemort.

Hermione was not sure what would be worse: living with Lucius and Draco Malfoy, being more or less alone with Hogwarts’ playboy for two years or going with these two unknown men. Was there a Mrs. Nott? Lady Nott? If so, why was she not present? Pansy Parkinson stood between her parents, her face blank as if under _Imperius_.

The Dark wizards outnumbered the Light, Hermione noted uncomfortably.

She looked over to Ginny and the younger girl met her eyes with a worried frown.

Dumbledore nodded to the new arrivals and started the ritualised exchange of hostages as tradition dictated.

“We have come to secure peace.”

“And so we will for the agreed number of moons.”

Voldemort’s hissing voice made the words sound false and empty, making a mockery of the ritual.

“We are offering one of our brightest lights to you, to honour this pact.”

Dumbledore rested his hand on Hermione’s right shoulder and squeezed lightly.

“My faithful servant, Lucius Malfoy, will have the honour to house her.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat and only then she realised that it had been beating much faster than usual.

The Malfoys.

Would they call her a Mudblood and use her as a servant? But that was not allowed. They had to behave civilly.

With determination, Hermione turned around to her leader and knelt down, kissing the back of his hand to satisfy tradition. After she straightened, she wrapped her arms around the old body that felt so frail beneath the voluminous robes.

“Goodbye,” she whispered. “Make it worthwhile.”

She felt his bearded, scratchy nod against her cheek and parted from him with tears in her eyes.

Unsheathing her wand, she turned around and traversed the green towards Lucius Malfoy, her trunk levitating behind her.

She fell to her knees, with hardly suppressed rage upon the subservient gesture and offered her wand. It was customary to arrive unarmed at her host’s home.

Lucius Malfoy accepted her wand and extended a hand to help her stand. She knew, all movements were choreographed like a dance but was nevertheless surprised that he did not flinch, when her ungloved hand touched his.

Hermione stood behind the blond man and observed first Theodore go through the motions of the exchange, taking his place with Lavender’s parents, then Ginny, who seemed unsure whom to offer her wand. In the end, Mrs. Zabini took it, but handed it to Blaise. Ginny solved the problem of uncertain hierarchy by standing behind both Blaise and his mother.

Pansy was the last one to pass to the other side and stand with Arthur and Molly. Outwardly calm, it was clear that she was terrified.

Voldemort and Dumbledore first cut the ball of their hands, and then raised their wands to speak the final words. Magic flashed, spread like a dome and then vanished in a rain of sparks.

Their fate was sealed by magic and blood.

The Notts and Zabinis Apparated away nearly simultaneously. Just as Lucius Malfoy took her elbow and turned to transport her side-along, Hermione heard the loud sob of Pansy breaking down.

 

***

 

Lucius Malfoy let go of her hand immediately after his home materialised around them and Hermione tumbled to the flag stone floor, felled by the momentum of Apparition and the unexpected loss of leverage.

“Graceful as ever, Granger.”

Hermione looked up into the faces of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy.

“Conceited as usual, ferret?”

Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy just scoffed softly.

“Careful here. Equal treatment goes both ways. We have to treat each other as,” and here his face had a disgusted expression, “family. So as long as you would not call your brother a ferret, I suggest you refrain from it in this house or the premature end of this truce will rest on your shoulders.”

Racking her brain for a witty response that would surely come to her in a few hours time when it was too late, Hermione tried to get up from the entrance hall floor with a bit of dignity left. 

What a way to start the next two years.

“Nonsense, Draco!” Narcissa Malfoy placed a delicate hand on her son’s shoulder and pushed him toward Hermione. “Remember your manners and help her up.”

Draco closed his eyes and sighed. When he looked at her again, his face was free from malevolence. He took a step in her direction and offered his hand to assist her.

Hermione needed to stare at the hand in front of her for several seconds before she could decide that it would turn events from bad to worse should she refuse his offer.

“Thank you,” she said straightening up.

Narcissa’s face lit up in a smile.

“Now that this is cleared up, I would like to welcome you into the house, Hermione.” She kissed the air next to Hermione’s cheeks right-left-right, as the French greeting went and then held her by her shoulders at arm’s length. “You poor girl!” she exclaimed. “What you must have suffered in the war!”

Without comprehension, Hermione looked at the pure blood woman.

“I will instruct the elves to run you a regenerating bath and place extra beauty potions on your vanity.”

Oblivious to the affronted look on Hermione’s face, she looped her arm through the girl’s and proceeded toward the wide stone stairs leading to an even wider landing.

“Then, when you are settled, I will take you to my seamstress to outfit you with respectable robes, we can’t have you walk around in tatters.”

Hermione looked down at her clean dark jeans and light mac. Although her clothes were decidedly Muggle and a far cry from the elegant style the Malfoys seemed to prefer even during daytime on a weekday, Hermione bristled at being called … ugly? Had Narcissa Malfoy implied that she was ugly?

Narcissa chatted on animatedly, outlining visits to beauty salons and fabric stores, the hair witchery and the shoemancer.

Because she did not know what else to do, she let herself be led up the steps but could not keep from looking over her shoulder in horror, into the amused faces of the Malfoy men.

“Welcome to hell,” Draco mouthed before displaying a vicious smirk.

 

***

 

Hermione was surprised to see that her accommodation was comprised of a spacious bedroom with adjoining bathroom instead of a corner in the servants’ quarters. 

She was also very thankful that they had decorated in colours other than Slytherin’s. Her room had a homely feel to it with pale yellow wall coverings and gleaming mahogany furniture.

But then, the laws pertaining hostages were clear and strict as she had researched prior to her hand over.

The Malfoys would need to treat her like family, or give her at least all the privileges that a daughter of the house would enjoy. Affection could of course not be ordered to be given.

Hermione doubted that they were very affectionate toward each other anyhow.

Her reflection in the faceted crystal mirror looked nervous.

Hermione had brought her one and only set of dress robes which were a rather muted affair as she had bought them for a memorial service. The black looked very severe. It reminded her of the man they had buried and the pang in her chest surprised her with its force, even more than a year later.

Her wand had been on top of her things in her trunk when it was delivered to her room and Hermione now used it to quickly lighten the colour of her robes. Grey still gave a depressing impression so she changed to a golden chocolate brown that brought out the natural highlights in her hair.

“You look worn out and impoverished, dear.”

She gave the thing a withering scowl. A talking mirror was just what she needed. Especially since she would not want to know its answer to any question that started with ‘mirror, mirror on the wall…’

Her looks had to do for now.

She had been informed that supper would be served at seven o’clock, so she needed to leave now or be late for the first meal with her hosts.

Malfoy Manor was not as grand as she had imagined it. Of course it was a large house with many reception and bedrooms and the finishing touches were of very high quality and spoke of a long history of house proud inhabitants who loved to put their mark on the property.

But somehow she had thought of a wizarding manor of something akin to a fairy tale castle complete with turrets and battlements and maybe even climbing roses all over its walls.

In truth, Malfoy Manor was not much different from a Muggle manor, which simply meant the biggest house in the village. 

Letting her gaze drift over ancient oil paintings, tapestries and suits of armour, she had to admit, it was a rather nice manor, indeed.

When she reached the entrance hall, she found Draco Malfoy pacing at the bottom of the stairs in a set of charcoal dress robes. He halted when he became aware of her descending the steps.

“Well, at least you know how to dress for supper, albeit rather commonly.”

He offered his arm and she rested her hand on it, wondering whether he would bear her touching his person if his arm would not be protected by several layers of robes.


	3. Nocturn

Bloody, stupid Mudblood!

The elves should have put up locking and silencing spells. Obviously, she did not have herself under control.

What was she playing at raising such a ruckus in the middle of the night?

With a sound of indignation, Draco swung his legs over the edge of his bed, snatched his wand from its place on the bedside cabinet, stomped to the door and threw it open to the hall.

Like a cloud of thunder he rolled toward the Mudblood’s room, ready to take her apart and put her firmly into her place. 

Armistice or not, her behaviour was unacceptable.

Without the least bit of polite decorum, he pounded against the polished oak of her door.

He waited several seconds in mounting anger. This uncultured bint did not even have the decency to answer when called upon. This just served to show how a Muggle upbringing could thoroughly spoil someone. Or maybe it was truly the blood. Granger had been exposed to real culture, wizard culture, for years by now. And still she did not know how to behave in polite company.

For instance, one should not let a caller stand outside of the door in silence.

Silence?

The moaning and groaning had stopped at some point during his angry advance. She was probably embarrassed that he had heard her and was now hiding under the duvet in mortification.

Served her right.

He smirked. He would tease her mercilessly during breakfast. If he had to treat the Mudblood like a sister, teasing and pulling pig tails was certainly within the parameters of ‘equal’ treatment.

Turning around he wanted to make his way back to his own room, when the mumbling and moaning started again.

Infuriated and tired, he whipped around and simply used his magical signature that identified him as a Malfoy and opened her door, letting it bang against the wall of her room, sure to damage the priceless silken wall covering.

“Granger!” He hollered.

It was extremely dark in the room. She had closed the wooden shutters on the inside of the window and prevented the moon light to seep into her room.

“Lumos,” he ordered in a voice that was not hushed to prevent her from waking.

The Mudblood tossed and flailed in the wide sleigh bed. The duvet only covered her lower half by now and she was even fighting this minimal restriction of her legs.

So she had not been engaging in some outlandish activity, but rather had an unnerving nightmare.

Unnerving especially for him.

This would not do.

He stalked to her bedside and poked her with his wand.

She whimpered and moved her head from side to side.

A mischievous idea formed. 

“Nox.”

Time to pull pig tails.

Draco sat down on the edge of her bed, his hip lightly touching hers. He grasped her shoulder firmly and shook.

“Hermione, wake up!”

She cried out and flew into his arms.

Stunned he held still.

“Harry? Oh Harry I had a terrible dream!”

Potter? She expected to find Potter in her bed when waking up to a man with a naked chest?

Interesting.

He tentatively wrapped an arm around her.

Granger clung to him, sobbing violently.

“It was horrible! Albus and Voldemort had declared a truce and that meant that hostages had to be exchanged.”

Draco barely kept himself from flinching at the casual mention of the Dark Lord’s name. Granger trembled in his embrace and made the crook of his neck wet and slick with hot tears and sweet smelling face cream. 

“I had to go to the Malfoys and they were so cold to me!”

Cold, were they? Draco wanted to know how far he could push her with his little game and slid his fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck. He delicately pushed her head back and swiped his thumb over her cheek to wipe away some tears that might still be there.

She sniffled a bit, but felt very pliant and even leaned into his cupping hand. The trust she was emanating was pleasant and discomfiting at the same time. She was stupid to trust anybody like this. Dark room or not. And he would show her just that.

Draco leaned forward and pressed his lips against her slightly open mouth. For several moments, nothing happened and Draco noticed several things. She had frozen to complete stillness. Her lips were salty from her tears. Beyond the salt, the Mudblood tasted … good. Like fresh warm bread. Like cinnamon swirls. Like hot cross buns with butter.

He let his tongue glide along her lower lip and further. That propelled her into action, suddenly pushing against his chest with all her force, her legs struggled against the cover, but he was sitting on its edge and it effectively restrained her to the mattress.

Soft breasts were pressed against him and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin silk garment that she was wearing to bed.

What had started as a little game to aggravate her was quickly getting out of hand. He used his body weight to tip her backward and with her hands pushing against his shoulders, she had nothing to brace herself on and fell on her back with a muffled groan... 

With her wand she might have been very agile, but physically she was no match for him. It was easy to take advantage of her confused and tangled state and pin her to the bed with his body. 

She squeaked in surprise and he realised that she must be feeling how hard he was, even through the quilt.

He moved away from her lips and started sucking the delicate skin of her throat relentlessly.

She made a keening sound and tried to wriggle away from him. In her attempt she only succeeded to lodge him firmly between her thighs.

“Is this how you would treat a sister, Malfoy?” Her words were choked and angry and made him come to his senses.

Raising up on one elbow, he reached for his wand and cast _Iluminate_ , candles and sconces flaring to life. Granger looked ravished and deliciously helpless beneath him. He saw outrage and fear and it turned him on even more.

But he knew she was right.

“No, Granger, not a sister, although I might be willing to invoke some _very_ old Pureblood customs for you.” Her eyes grew wide with incredulity and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “But you know, cousins are not forbidden to us.”

He gave a sharp thrust that made her cry out in surprise and maybe pleasure. Then he released her and sauntered out of the room, unabashedly showing off the state of arousal he was in.

He did not bother to close the door and heard her jump out of the bed and run across the room to slam the door shut once she deemed him far enough away. Waiting patiently, he listened to her dragging or pushing a heavy piece of furniture against the door to block it.

It was beyond him why that should stop him in the least or why she did not levitate whatever it was that now sat under the door handle. He shook his head. 

Mudblood. 

Always forgetting that she was a witch.


	4. Intrusions

“Goodness, Granger! Are you planning on taking up a toil and plough the earth, as your name suggests? You cannot possibly think your attire to be suitable for a family dinner!”

Hermione looked down on herself. Black jeans and a light cotton cardigan in red had seemed to be acceptable for a weekday dinner, since she had been dining by herself most days, but tonight Draco had obviously changed into dress robes after wearing sufficiently elegant robes all day.

“Are you expecting guests?”

She did not want to cause discord on the first ‘real’ supper with the family. Dinner on the first night had been a disaster. Lucius never showed up, being called away by his Master, Narcissa sent her apologies stating that she had a headache. She had sat in her funeral robes at the long table across from Draco, silent and awkward until he too, was summoned. After that, food had been served in her room, at the small table near the window, and she had been grateful for the solitude. Being called down for supper had been unexpected.

Draco looked at her incredulously.

“You mean otherwise you would insult my parents with this attire? No, Granger, we are not expecting guests. Now I suggest to run up to your room, pull on something less offending to the eye and be down here in a matter of minutes for the aperitif.”

For a few seconds she stood motionless, trying to figure out whether this was some sort of trap she was about to walk into.

“Move your arse, Granger; I won’t be able to make your excuses forever!”

She ran up the staircase, taking two or three of the low steps at a time. Draco mumbled something that could very well have been ‘undignified, graceless klutz’, but she did not care.

In her room she opened her wardrobe and started flipping through the hangers, desperate to find one of her robes. Something told her that even an evening gown would not have passed for dignified if it was a Muggle garment.

Finally she found the light blue robes. They were not as delicate and elegant as Narcissa Malfoy’s robes, but they would do for the evening. She did very well remember how out of place and sad she had felt in her altered funeral robes.

Running down the stairs again, she nearly tripped over her low heeled shoes.

To her surprise, Draco was still waiting in the hall, hands clasped behind his back, studying a still life with visible impatience.

Hearing her clicking steps on the stone floor, he turned around and scrutinised her from head to toe.

Her hair was still untamed and absolutely everywhere and the sky blue robes were on the plain side, more suited for an outing during the day than a formal family dinner, but she would have to do.

He held his arm out to her and she simply stared at it.

After a deep sigh, he rolled his eyes.

“Put your fingertips on my forearm, Granger. I am going to escort you to dinner.”

She looked flustered and slightly alarmed, but approached him with hesitant steps.

“Right.” She looked at his arm as if hypnotised.

With a huff he took her hand in his and placed it on his arm.

“There. Not that difficult, is it?”

The double door to the dining room opened and he walked through, forcing her to tag along like a clumsy, stumbling child playing dress-up, unaccustomed to the long skirt and slippery shoes.

Lucius arched his brows upon his son’s entry, the hostage on his arm. It was indeed proper etiquette, but he had quite obviously expected a debacle of some variation or other, taking her upbringing into account.

Draco went through the motions of supper as expected and led the witch on his arm to the liquor cabinet. On a silver-plated tray, a milky substance stood waiting in an intricately cut crystal decanter next to a jug of iced water.

“How much water do you want in your pastis, Granger?”

“What, no absinthe?” She asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Draco rolled his eyes.

“Pastis is an anise-based aperitif and you should mix it with water unless you want to be drunk before the first course arrives, Granger.”

“I know what pastis is, my family has a holiday home in the south of France,” she hissed low into his ear. “I just don’t care for the taste of anise or liquorice. I simply didn’t want to be rude in rejecting the aperitif, but could not decide whether I’d prefer a stronger taste but less to swallow or a diluted taste that would take me ages to get down.”

“Gee, thanks for not being rude, then. You can ask for something else, you know.”

She had the grace to blush. Being on the defence around him had become second nature and she did not expect him to simply ask her a question without ulterior motives.

“Sorry. Would you happen to have some grenadine syrup? That would be fine.”

Draco looked at her curiously. Interacting with her in a civil manner felt surreal and dangerous. 

She nearly appeared to be a somewhat decent witch.

“Of course.” He reached for a tall bottle on another tray and added red syrup to one of the glasses, turning the drink a pinkish colour.

“Thanks.”

He noticed that her cheeks had turned rather pinkish, too.

There was an awkward silence when Draco and Hermione joined the elder Malfoys near the fire place. 

It was quite clear that Hermione was not a guest but an outsider placed in their midst. 

Narcissa smiled sweetly at the girl.

“So, you have been to France?”

Thankful for the pointer, Hermione tried to smile back.

“My family has a holiday home in the Camargue region. We used to go there every summer before ... before the war became too intense. My parents were even thinking of relocating there for their retirement.”

Completely disregarding the awkward silence that followed, Narcissa exclaimed in a cheery voice: “The Camargue! How lovely! I always adored its rustic beauty. The white horses, the flamingos... Have you ever been to a bull fight? They are quite the spectacle.”

“Er, we try not to support that particular custom...”

“No matter, no matter!” Narcissa placed her hand on Hermione’s arm just above her wrist.

“We also like to spend our summers abroad. There is of course the ancestral home in Normandy, but we have another retreat on the Riviera.”

“The Malfoys are from Normandy?”

“Yes.” Lucius joined the conversation. “Marellus Malfoi followed William to England.” He downed the rest of his aperitif. “The Malfoys have been in England ever since.”

“How about your family, Granger? Do you know which farm your ancestors slaved away on?”

She refused to give Draco the satisfaction to see her riled up.

“No, I do not know. But my mother’s maiden name is Beauregard, so we assume that her ancestors also came over from France at some point of time.”

They slowly walked from the fire place to the long dining table, where Lucius drew out the chair for Narcissa and Draco automatically did the same for Hermione. 

Conversation was hard work at best, but Draco noted that his mother looked particularly pleased that their hostage knew which cutlery went with which course and did not eat with her elbows on the table.

Who would have thought that the Mudblood had basic manners?

 

***

 

Having an outsider in his home was aggravating. Draco Malfoy valued his privacy, and with Granger in the house he felt as if he could not relax and sprawl over the sofas in the drawing room in his under robes anymore.

Not that a Malfoy would ever do something as undignified as that, but now that it seemed impossible, the urge to sprawl and walk around half dressed was mounting.

Thankfully, she had adopted to stay out of the family’s way as much as possible, evading his father’s annoyed silences and his mother’s attempts to dress her in soft pink frilly robes.

The only person she could not avoid and who could not avoid her in turn was he himself. Hogwarts had been closed from the middle of their sixth year onward and the war had prevented any form of tutoring to be effective.

Although he had been able to keep up with the sixth year studies, the seventh year curriculum had been commenced and recommenced and recommenced again and again after being interrupted by the events of the war and obligations to the Dark Lord.

Starting his studies over with the Mudblood know-it-all had been a daunting prospect, but to be honest it was almost pleasant to have somebody to study with.

He liked to watch her.

She was chewing the feathery end of her quill while concentrating hard on her history essay. 

With private tutors who only had to divide their attention between two students, there had been no reason to wave her hand in the air in the most annoyingly fashion and their fast-paced discussion in every single lesson regardless the subject was … exhilarating.

After only a week they had already covered two weeks worth of lessons and their tutors were thinking about giving them research projects to work on and broaden their knowledge beyond NEWT level. The only reason they had not started yet, was the reluctance of their pure blood teachers to force one of their own to work closely with a Mudblood.

He looked forward to working with her on a joint project without close supervision of a tutor.

After the first night in which he had barged into her room to be witness to her nightmares, she had been amusingly skittish.

Her quill was now scratching away fervently obviously hardly able to keep up with her thoughts, she obviously struggled between quickly putting her thoughts on paper and still maintaining her neat, even style of writing.

The fluttery sleeves of her new robes were pushed out of the way of her quill but threatened to smear the fresh ink by constantly gliding down her forearms. Very slowly, Draco moved his hand over to her bare skin. In her ignorance of pure blood culture, she was probably completely unaware of how enticing her arms looked to him. Pure blood girls never showed an inch of skin of their arms and legs after a certain age. At Hogwarts the Slytherin girls had always opted for long sleeved blouses and either worn tights or knee highs and skirts of the appropriate length.

He had to smile when he thought back to the dormitory talk with Blaise and Theo. The half blood and Mudblood girls of the other houses had been the topic of choice on many nights. The short sleeves on their blouses in summer, the ankle socks and knee length skirts and—oh gods!—the flimsy tops and short skirts on the weekends. 

Surely, Granger would be appalled should she ever find out that she had been the centre of many wanking sessions for any Slytherin interested in girls. Markus Flint had been teased mercilessly for weeks after he had forgotten to put up silencing charms and a muffled cry of ‘Granger!’ had sounded past his drawn bed curtains.

Draco himself had entertained thoughts of her more than once ever since he happened to walk by her when returning a book to the library. She had been perched on one of the tall library ladders, reaching for a thick, mouldy-looking tome with worn off old lettering. He had happened to look up, coincidentally, of course, and caught a glimpse of red, low cut knickers and nothing else under her grey uniform skirt.

That night, he had fisted and tugged at himself imagining her wearing a matching bra to those red knickers and slowly crawling up to him in his bed.

 _Imagining_ to touch her was allowed, he had decided. 

And now he had the opportunity in front of him every day.

He drew a finger along her exposed forearm and she jumped in surprise, drawing the tip of her quill from one side of her parchment to the other, smearing more than one paragraph.

“What are you playing at? Do you want me to mess up my magical creatures essay so you can get me into trouble with Professor Morgwin?”

He snorted.

“As if I needed to resort to that, Granger.” And then in a lower tone: “Does it excite you to be so close to me?”

She wordlessly moved one seat down, out of range of his hands.

Draco smirked at her bent head, her unbelievable hair falling over her face, concealing a blush, maybe?

He had not missed how the fine hairs on her arm had stood and how goose bumps had spread over her skin, leaving a prickly trail in his finger’s wake.

“So Granger, will you be able to touch a unicorn?”

The quill in her hand paused her fluent writing and she looked up from her parchment very slowly.

“Excuse me?”

Draco felt a warm rush of satisfaction as Granger gaped at him and blinked slowly. 

“Are you showing yourself some respect and wait or are you the Muggle that you seem to be and have put out already?”

“This is none of your business, Malfoy.”

“I see.”

He bade his time.

“Nobody wants to touch you?”

She ignored him.

“On the other hand, it might be quite the opposite. At least you were not surprised to find a man in your room in the middle of the night.”

She suddenly looked sad and he pushed on, sensing the near victory.

“Is Potter good in bed?”

“I am not a whore, Malfoy.”

“So nobody wants to touch you, then.” He leaned back. “Understandable.”

Granger closed her book with a bang and stood.

“Have you looked around, Malfoy? The wizarding world is nearly void of wizards nowadays. Are you honestly expecting me to wait for a hypothetical wedding to some hypothetical wizard, who will be thrilled at being able to rid me of a tiny piece of skin? For the last few years I did not know whether I will wake up the next morning and I am glad, so glad, that I had a wizard, who was kind and loving and gentle when we needed it and quite the opposite when we needed that. I am glad I had these moments with him, because now he is gone and nothing will bring him back and I miss him and ... and...and I hate you!”

Her voice had been choked and she quickly gathered her parchment and quills and made a mess of it while trying to pack them too quickly, destroying her days’ work and not caring.

He had not expected this.

And aggravating her did not feel as good as it should have felt.


	5. Pavo

With a sharp motion, the seamstress poked her wand into Hermione’s back.

“Don’t slouch, girl! Have you had no upbringing at all?” She turned to Narcissa, clearly not expecting an answer. “Honestly Narcissa, you need to walk her up and down the staircase with a book on her head if you expect her to wear proper robes. The way she holds herself at present is common at best.”

Narcissa smiled and daintily stirred her tea with milk before taking a small sip.

“Do not worry, Arachne, she will be the picture of a young lady by the end of her stay with us.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “I think we should try some more walking robes now.”

Hermione closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. The pain was a welcome release for the urge to stamp her foot and slam the door on her way out.

Narcissa sat on a comfortable couch in front of the shop window dressed in burgundy brocade. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup looked as fresh as it had early that morning when she had commanded Hermione to follow her to Diagon Alley.

Hermione looked as if she had been dragged through the scullery of the manor house and back. She was not a happy shopper, always trying to only get whatever she needed quickly and preferably painlessly. The experience of a Malfoy day out was draining her of her will to be civil.

The coiffeuse-witch from France had tsked over her dry, coarse hair, the split ends and the lack of a cut. She had tugged on Hermione’s locks, insulted her in French, thinking her client unable to understand, and concluded the curly mass unworthy of her full expertise and skill.

Thankfully she had got away with only a trim. And a bagful of hair potions.

This time.

The shoemancer had encased her feet in tightly-laced leather, making her feet look dainty and utterly useless for anything beside sitting politely or—she shuddered—slow walks with measured steps, preferably leaning on the arm of a strong wizard so she wouldn’t lose her balance on heels that were much higher than she had ever been comfortable with.

Now the seamstress found her posture lacking.

“I don’t understand why the young girls don’t wear corsets anymore; they do make for a delightful silhouette.”

Her wand poked into Hermione’s shoulder blade.

“Because we value our internal organs?”

Narcissa’s teacup clattered against her saucer and the teaspoon nearly, but not quite, fell from it to the top of the small polished mahogany table.

“Hermione!”

Behind her back, she could feel the frosty silence of a witch insulted but too afraid to lose a valued customer to act on it.

“I am sorry?” she offered without too much conviction.

The seamstress snorted softly and proceeded to place pins along the side of the bodice of the ankle-length robe. Carefully, she pricked Hermione’s skin with each new pin.

Narcissa had taken up her cup again and gazed at her with solemn eyes. 

Guilt at the woman’s disappointment settled in Hermione’s stomach and made her stand straighter despite her weariness. Running from one shop to the next, hour after hour, had exhausted her, and she longed to wash her face with a cool wet cloth and then curl up under her deliciously soft duvet.

But now she stood, straight and silent, lifting her arms when prompted, turning this way and that, and being utterly ignored by the two chattering witches.

With growing resignation and dread, Hermione looked at the ever growing pile of fine fabrics, strewn over a bench next to the cutting table.

She closed her eyes and wondered silently what in Merlin’s name she needed walking robes for.

 

***

 

“How is life with Granger, Draco?”

Blaise Zabini leaned against the window frame in Draco’s room, appearing to observe something on the grounds outside with apt interest.

“Why do you ask?” 

Draco came up next to him and followed his line of vision to a warmly bundled-up Granger on the front lawn.

She crouched down, making her woollen cloak fan out behind her on the damp grass.

A white peacock eyed her suspiciously, cocking his head to the side, seemingly trying to decide whether the lure of whatever she had on her outstretched, palm would be worth the risk of coming any nearer to the human.

Draco snorted.

“Unsurprisingly, she appears to have taken an interest in the livestock.”

The peacock could no longer withstand the temptation and took two more tentative steps forward.

“And the animals feel right at home with her.”

The white bird pecked at her hand a few times, becoming bolder and bolder until Granger suddenly jumped up, shaking her hand wildly.

“Or maybe not.” 

Draco smirked.

“No, really, Draco. Is it that bad? She just arrived with your mother, who may I add looked rather satisfied with herself. There were at least two dozen packages levitating behind them, you might want to cut Granger some slack.”

Draco shrugged.

“I reckon it is not as bad as it could be. She does make an effort not to be in the way, but I still can’t imagine her being here for two years. She does amuse Mother, though.”

Blaise nodded with a pensive look on his face.

“Ginny is quite agreeable to live with.”

“The blood traitor?” Draco’s eyebrows nearly leapt off his face. “ _Ginny_?”

Blaise ignored the disbelieving tone in Draco’s voice and carried on.

“Do you think this armistice is going to be good for anything?”

Draco had also been thinking about this. Returning to his studies in earnest had meant thinking about the future.

It was nice to think that one might have a future.

“I would not count on it, Blaise. We will probably just go back to where we left off and eradicate them or they will eradicate us.”

“The Dark Lord said we would need time to recover. Maybe the armistice could be extended? It has happened many times before...”

“What is this, Blaise? Dreaming of a future with a blood traitor? Has she managed to trap you already?”

And as an afterthought: “She is not pregnant, is she?”

“Gods, no!”

Blaise finally averted his gaze from the girl in the gardens, chasing and being chased by the peacock.

“But think about it. How many pure blood girls do you know that are not yet betrothed? How many are left?”

Draco looked at his friend in mounting horror. He had always assumed he would get married one day to uphold the Malfoy name, but since he had never expected anything but an arranged marriage, he had never wasted any thoughts on whom he would marry in the end.

“Ginny is someone I am comfortable being with, once we got over the awkward situation. She is easy to talk to and so ... enthusiastic.”

He smiled.

“I can make her happy with the smallest of things. She is so amazed and excited about anything new she experiences. We went to my grandfather’s house in Venice, and you should have seen her! The other pure blood girls I know would have feigned disinterest, or even worse, I think they would have been disinterested. With her it was like seeing the town for the first time.”

Draco watched Blaise becoming more and more distressed.

“I don’t want to face her in battle in two years time!”

“Blaise, you need to keep your wits about you! The war is not going to disappear just so you can be happy with your hostage!”

“I know!” He sounded miserable.

After a little while, Blaise added something seemingly out of context.

“I hear that Pansy has grown quite close to the Weasley mother. Unsurprising given that her own mother passed away when she was small.” Draco did not react. “The Weasleys have a lot of pure blood sons.”

Draco looked out of the window into the darkening gardens to the front of the manor.

Granger stood bent over, one hand resting near her knee, the other near her face with her forefinger extended. The peacock seemed nonplussed by her scolding.

 

***

 

The silky fabric of her robes felt strange when she walked along the corridors or climbed the stone staircases.

For years and years her choice of clothing had been dictated by practicality. It had to be resilient, warm in winter, and most of all it should under no circumstances hinder her movements while fighting.

Now she was wearing silken robes that fluttered when she moved. Narcissa had been devastated when Hermione had insisted on the more simple styles and darker colours. She would have so loved to see her in pastel pink.

In the end she had agreed that Hermione was not five years old and that she did not feel comfortable in the current situation to wear such happy colours. It would soon be the winter season anyhow, so darker colours were permitted.

Hermione could not help but wonder what her life would have been like without the war, without the murder of her parents, without the scars on her body and soul.

The thought of a life with her parents in the Muggle world felt just as awkward as her life now at the manor. In a way, war was all she knew. Her formative years had been spent fighting, and although the mere absence of wand-to-wand fights did not make her feel particularly safe with the Malfoys, she did relish the opportunity to rediscover simple pleasures such as reading without interruption or pressure to complete a certain piece of research before the other side struck again.

She had heard Narcissa call for Draco and his rushed exit from his room across from hers and down the corridor.

Her curiosity was piqued.

It was risky to eavesdrop on her hosts. Keepers. Hosts.

But knowledge was power, and she could always feign ignorance and claim to have just happened upon them by chance.

Near Lucius’ study she could hear voices. Narcissa and Draco she could clearly distinguish. Then Lucius and the voice of another man.

It could not be.

With a shaking hand, she pushed the door of Lucius’ study open a bit further. She had never been in this room, preferring to give the man a wide berth. He had been nothing but polite, but she did not want to take any chances.

Her hosts were assembled around the wide desk, Lucius seated behind it, Draco in the armchair in front of it with Narcissa standing behind the backrest, one hand placed on the aged leather.

A tall painting, not quite life-size but grand enough to warrant a wall to itself, hung to the desks’ right side.

She would have known the dark man anywhere.

“Severus?”

All three living Malfoys turned to her; her voice had been so strained, yet hopeful and starving.

“Loutre?” The paintings voice was just as hopeful.

Otter, the French term of endearment that Severus had found so fitting for her.

“Severus.” This time, her voice did break under the pressure of oncoming tears ending the man’s name in a high-pitched sob.

She rushed forward, past the shell-shocked Malfoy family, and placed a hand flat against the bottom of the canvas as far up as she could reach.

The man in the portrait immediately fell to his knees, robes bunching up in a black cloud around him on the painted stone floor.

“Albus sent _you_ here? Is he insane?”

“I thought all your portraits had been destroyed!” She wiped the streaming tears with her sleeve that soaked through in a matter of seconds. “I thought you were gone for good!”

He placed his hand against hers, fingertips touching the ball of her hand, separated by canvas and paint and magic.

“Ma loutre, I am not really here, just a memory of my former self.”

She ignored what he was saying, resting her forehead on the gilded frame of the painting, crying violently.

“I miss you so much!”

“I miss you, too.” 

The likeness of Severus Snape, executed traitor to the Dark Cause, remained silent while Hermione cried herself out.

When the shaking of her shoulders subsided a clearing of a throat drew their attention to the owners of the house.

“Care to explain this, Severus? Not only do you pretend to be sleeping until today but then you raise quite a few questions with your behaviour toward… our guest.”

“I don’t think this is any of your business, Lucius.”

“Why do you, of all people, have a portrait of him anyway?” Hermione cried indignantly.

“Why, excuse me. This is still my home, and I may have portraits of anyone I please anywhere I please.”

Hermione did not back down, but sniffed and stared into his face.

“I had a portrait of Lucius in my chambers, Hermione. We knew how dangerous this war was, and we wanted to ensure each other’s memories would be preserved.”

She eyed the aristocrat with a changing perception.

“Was he such a good friend?” And then, before the Severus’ portrait could answer. “Closer to you than I?”

Jealousy ripped at her heart.

“Nobody was closer to me than you. But the portrait was safe in the manor. Please forgive me for not telling you.”

His gentle voice mollified her, enjoying the long-missed baritone.

“Well.” Lucius was obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “I think we should give you some privacy.” He motioned to his wife and son to vacate the study. “But I warn you. Everything in this room is warded. Do. Not. Even. Try.”

Hermione nodded absently and clutched at the carved picture frame.

Narcissa looked reluctant to leave the room, but decided to merely place a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder to convey her understanding.

Draco seemed to be less inclined to leave, but a nudge from his mother made him get up from his seat and move to the door.

His godfather and the Mudblood were whispering to each other, looking sickeningly lovey-dovey.

It was disgust that was churning in his stomach.

Disgust.

Even if it felt remarkably like jealousy.

He trailed behind and watched as Granger once again forgot that she could do magic and lugged the heavy armchair across the room to the portrait. Pushing the backrest flush against the wall underneath the frame, she shed her shoes and climbed on top of the upholstered seat.

Now her face was at a level that allowed Severus Snape to sit comfortably and see eye to eye.

Draco huffed softly. They were oblivious to the rest of the world.

A dead man and a Mudblood. 

How fitting.

Later, when he was sitting over his arithmancy parchments, his thoughts would wander back to the image of her before the portrait.

Suddenly so very vibrant and alive.

Granger had very pretty feet.

As delicate as her hands, coming to think of it.


	6. Philomena

He was lagging.

The ancient runes translation was exacting, but the matter was very dry, Goblin laws. Goblins were known to cover every angle of an issue and never leave loop holes in their laws.

Just the thing to get Granger excited. She was bent over her books, cheeks flushed, her quill scratching over her parchment at a pace that would suggest her to be under threat of death to finish.

Her enthusiasm irked him today, as he was not feeling like working himself. 

Settling for watching her and staring into space, he went about finding a new way to aggravate her.

She was too amusing when provoked.

Absentmindedly, Draco kept reaching for the bowl with shelled Almonds, tapping them with his wand. The shell cracked with a soft scrunching noise a he popped the kernel into his mouth.

Exasperated, Hermione tried to ignore the regular noise in the silence of the library, until she could take no more. She stood so abruptly that her chair teetered on its hind legs before falling forward and rocking a bit back and forth before stilling.

Bent over the wide table she caught his hand in the bowl and held on.

“Can you please stop doing that? It makes me crazy!”

He looked at her with cool eyes; his gaze strayed down to where the generous neckline of her deep blue robes ended. His mother had probably not intended to display what his eyes had now access to.

She either did not notice or was too unused to clothing that could become revealing if one did not take care. He met her eyes in amusement.

“No.”

She huffed but still did not let go of his wrist. His skin was warmed by her grip and tingled in interest.

“The noise makes it hard to concentrate, could you at least cast _Muffliato_?”

He looked pointedly at her hand and she let go, sitting down on her chair with a thump.

“I am allergic to _Muffliato_.”

Now she tried to run her hand through her braided hair and only managed to get her fingers caught in the complicated slings of locks. His mother was truly putting her through the paces. In two years she would leave this house behaving like a proper witch. It would be interesting to see what Narcissa’s finishing school approach could accomplish.

“Who has ever heard about somebody being allergic to a spell?” she cried desperately trying to untangle the small ring she wore on her right hand.

He shrugged.

“It gives me a headache.”

She closed her eyes and he thought she might break out in tears of frustration.

“It would not even be on you, just on the bloody almonds!”

He loved how harried she looked.

“I am shocked!” he placed a hand on his own chest. “You are suggesting I ingest something I am allergic to?”

She mumbled something that sounded very much like ‘I hope it kills you’.

With glee, he tapped his wand against the almond he had been holding the entire time. The shell split in the middle and revealed two kernels.

A perfect Philomena.

“I tell you what, Granger. If you participate in a pure blood custom with me, I will refrain from eating shelled almonds in your presence.” Which left a myriad of other nuts as well as other shelled things he could still eat and annoy her to no end.

Although the thought of eating mussels or lobster in the library horrified him, it would horrify her _so_ much more.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Does this particular pure blood custom involve anything about cousins, because I can tell you Malfoy, I will certainly not…”

“Hold your horses, Granger—or do Muggles use donkeys to work the earth? Anyhow, no, nothing like that.” He produced the shell with the two kernels. “This is a Philomena. I will eat one and you will eat one. The one of us to remember first when we see each other tomorrow, will say ‘Good Morning Philippine’ and wins. They can ask the loser, most probably you, Granger, for a small gift.”

“Why do you say Philippine if this is called a Philomena?”

Draco sighed deeply.

“Who cares, Granger? Merlin, leave it to you to question everything. Don’t pick it apart, just have fun.” _Or let me have fun at your expense._

“Why do you want me to do this? What kind of gift?”

“Anything, Granger. Anything.”

“Never. Who knows what you will ask for!”

Now he had her.

“So you admit that I am superior, since you will not be able to remember such a simple thing for one day and that you are scared, little Gryffindor?”

He could see her instinct to back away fighting with her natural inclination never to back down from a challenge. So easy to manipulate.

“Alright. Give it to me.”

She accepted one of the kernels from his hand and inspected it carefully before popping it into her mouth.

He followed suit and started chewing.

As soon as some of the almond had gone down, magic started swirling between them in a pale yellow figure of eight motion.

Hermione sat in shocked silence.

“You made me enter a magical contract.”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly.

“Serves you right not to be able to withstand a challenge. Sometimes I wonder what you Gryffindors would do if someone challenged you to poison yourself.”

He rolled his eyes and strolled from the room, determined not to forget about the Philomena tomorrow morning.

 

***

 

A ‘Good Morning Philippine!’ on the lips, Draco entered the dining room only to find Hermione’s chair empty.

Feeling a bit foolish, he murmured “Good morning, Mother. Father.”

The morning certainly did not start as expected. Draco had carefully waited a full fourteen minutes to be sure to be the last person to enter the dining room for breakfast. Hermione usually sat with her back to the door, as did he himself. She should have had no chance at all to be the first to remind him of the Philomena.

Granger had obviously had the same plan.

Fourteen minutes stretched to half an hour at which point Draco was in a sour mood. Granger seemed to want to ambush him at a time when he would never suspect it. But that would not work. He would be attentive.

Lucius suddenly hissed in pain and let the chair scrape backward noisily on the marble floor while he stood up, holding his left arm, just as Hermione rushed into the room, her apology for having overslept being cut short by the sight in front of her.

Lucius did not have to tell his wife and son where he was going as he summoned his black cloak and silver mask.

They watched the head of the Malfoy family go with a resounding crack of Apparition.

Hermione felt that her breathing was too loud in the following silence.

“I think I better prepare myself,” Draco said, getting up from his chair, childish games forgotten.

They waited a long time.

By an unspoken agreement, Hermione waited with mother and son, breakfast cold and ignored on the polished table.

Draco sat on one of the sofas, Death Eater robe draped over the armrest, mask on the side table. He had dressed warmly and sat now waiting for the dreaded burn in his arm, foot jumping nervously.

His hiss of pain was nearly drowned out by the loud sound that announced Lucius’ return.

He did not lose time.

“Draco, come. Miss Granger, you, too.”

Hermione stood, an icy feeling spreading through her, making her heart stumble.

Lucius held his hand out to her.

“Your wand.”

She slipped it slowly from its sleeve at her forearm and placed it in his palm. She then lifted her eyes to his and looked at him with trepidation.

“You will get it back.”

Something must have happened.

Albus had assured her that nobody would step out of line, that everybody was well aware of the laws concerning hostages.

The same laws that protected her in the Malfoy household could easily demand her death.

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the table, a frown on her pretty features.

She watched in silence as her husband clasped the shoulder of the girl and then all three of them spun away.

 

***

 

The room was vast and dark. So cold and imposing.

The few torches in scones along the circular walls did little to illuminate the hall. For a moment she caught Ginny’s worried eye a few black robes down. Blaise Zabini was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

A sea of black stood to either side of the throne and Hermione had to realise that she and Ginny were the only ones in attendance, who were not in Death Eater robes. Hermione deeply regretted wearing the ridiculously frilly and cheerful magenta robe that Narcissa had talked her into.

A very thin robe.

Hermione could not suppress a shiver and she wrapped her arms around her middle. She had been here for mere seconds and already she had to clench her jaws to keep her teeth from chattering.

Lucius was standing next to her and suddenly she could feel a warm presence behind her, not truly touching at all but shielding her back from the damp drafts that wafted through the catacomb-like room.

“It’s me,” Draco whispered when she flinched away.

She was only too aware that this setting could not mean anything good.

Neither for them, nor for herself.

Voldemort appeared directly in front of his gaudy seat, shortly followed by two Death Eaters, who had their hands firmly clasped around the upper arms of Albus Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley.

“My followers have been attacked. Is this how you honour the agreement, Albus? You were the one talking about family life and a reprieve for the young.” He stood. “It was a picnic, Albus, a picnic! Children were present!”

“I do not know who did this, Tom. Please consider that no one was harmed. A mere prank, a foolish one, but nevertheless a prank rather than an attack.”

“It matters not. I demand retribution.”

Hermione saw Arthur tense, his gaze flicking to Ginny.

Draco’s hands dug into her robes from behind, holding her in place unbeknownst to others.

“What kind of retribution do you chose, Tom?”

“I am not willing to call this armistice off as of yet.”

“I appreciate it, Tom.” Albus inclined his head.

“Now, which one should it be, Albus?”

Voldemort stood and glided closer to the two shivering girls. He let one very long, claw-like fingernail scrape over Ginny’s face, from her brow over her cheek down to her chin.

She did not flinch but tried to follow the movement with her eyes without stirring.

“Would you like to watch while your daughter pays for the foolishness of your peers, Arthur?”

Hermione saw Arthur close his eyes in pain.

Her own parents did not even know that she existed anymore. And they were certainly not here to watch whatever debasement she would be subjected to.

“No!”

Hermione surprised herself with the force and volume of that one exclaimed word.

“No?”

Voldemort seemed disbelievingly amused.

“Punish me.”

“A volunteer? How delightfully brave and stupid. But your lot never was one for self-preservation, were you?”

He strode back to his seat and leaned back comfortably.

“Lucius, would you like to do the honours?”

Draco’s hands were still holding her robes and she was unable to move away from him. And do something even more stupid than offering herself up for punishment. Lucius took a first step toward her and she inwardly tried to remember all the punishments that the laws cited.

Whipping.

Having a goat lick salt from the soles of her feet.

Caning. 

Caning was supposed to be crippling if done—well she could not add the word ‘right’ in good conscious—crippling if this was the intended outcome. Or if executed by an amateur. She doubted that there were any amateurs present.

Rape. Multiple even. 

She put that on top of the list of probable scenarios.

 _Please not the goat._

She had stared dumbfounded at the picture in the old law book. 

But then she had read on and a feeling of horror had gripped her. The rough tongue of the goat first made the victim laugh helplessly. The urge was so violent that many passed out from lack of oxygen or literally laughed themselves to death. If that did not happen and the licking went on long enough, the tickling sensation turned to one of pain, a feeling as if the underside of the feet was being removed and the grainy tongue licked directly over exposed nerves and bones.

“But I think that Draco has a score to settle from his schooldays. I think you will have to step aside for your son this time, Lucius.”

Lucius retreated back into the line of minions and Draco held her robes tighter than ever.

“Get on your knees, Mudblood. I am sure you know what to do.”

_Fellatio._

The relief that flooded her was nearly comical. 

The incident must have been a minor one to force Voldemort to stay within certain limits in his punishment.

She _only_ had to perform fellatio on a man she was forced to live with for more than another year.

Straining against Draco’s grip, he released her and she turned around.

The only thing she could see of his face behind the mask was his eyes.

They held no compassion.

Draco slid his hand into her curls at the nape of her neck and tightened his grip. 

Hard.

She held his gaze.

He did not caress the nape of her neck underneath her hair or try to whisper reassuring ‘I’m sorries’.

Not that she had expected that. 

This was not some twisted romance novel after all.

But he did not smirk at her either. His eyes were a careful, determined blank as he asserted pressure on her shoulder with his arm that rested there from cradling the back of her head.

The thin material of her skirt immediately soaked through with a cold, wet, slimy substance she did not want to think about.

Shutting the rest of the room out, she concentrated on the next task at hand.

Open robes.

Find belt.

Get shaking fingers to undo the buckle.

Think of peace.

Muster courage to go further.

Falter and try again.

In a twisted kind of way, Draco felt her hesitate and tightened his grip on her hair once more, jolting her back into action.

She unbuttoned his fly with difficulty, afraid that they might get impatient and change her ... task.

Thankfully he was already hard. It would be over ore quickly then.

She had felt a tightening of her stomach at the thought of sucking his limp dick to life.

Opening her mouth wide she closed her eyes and shut out the scene around her. The floor was still cold and hard and slick with unmentionable wetness ad there were still dozens if not more than a hundred men watching her on her knees in front of Malfoy.

She was lucky that it was not somebody like Dolohov, who was a brute in all things.

She was very unlucky that she had to face Malfoy in ten minutes. Tomorrow. Next week. In two months. At Christmas and Easter.

Her tongue moved in practiced patterns along the underside of his cock. 

Think of peace.

At least he tasted clean. Thank goodness for Malfoy vanity and immaculate grooming.

Bob head.

Think of peace.

Through her concentration she could hear unhappy murmurs from the assembled men. 

Malfoy seemed to realise this, too, because he suddenly had both of his hands in her hair and pulled her face all the way to his groin.

Surprised by the sudden movement, she made a distressed sound and out of pure reflex and instinct, her hands came up to his hips, trying to push him away.

He was going too far, she could not breathe and started struggling.

It was impossible to remember what she was supposed to think about.

Her stomach was heaving; her throat constricting and the cut air supply made her eyes water and tears of strain and panic made their way down her cheeks.

He simply held her there, her nose pressed into his blond, wiry hair and she could not stop fighting and screaming around this piece of flesh and her throat clamping down on him.

There were cheers now.

Catcalls.

Her throat constricted.

Her stomach lurched upward.

She could feel it on her lips and on her tongue. Contractions travelling down his cock. One, two, three.

She could not breathe.

Four.

_Just leave me in peace!_

And then she fell backward, hands and bottom instantly covered in pungent moisture.

The damp, stagnant air filled her lungs in gulps in between coughs.

“This was entertaining, although not nearly as much as it could have been. One more digression, Albus, one more, and we will be entertained, here as well as on the battlefield.”

Albus and Arthur were escorted out of the room and after Voldemort left, one Death Eater after the other Apparated out.

Hermione was still on the floor, staring blankly into nothingness.

Draco kept a careful distance and it was Lucius, who bent down to take her by the arm and help her to stand.

He steadied her when she nearly lost her footing in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, then quickly let her go.

“Granger, I...”

“Spare me, Draco.”

She turned to the stairs, still tasting his skin and sweat and seed in her mouth.

“Listen, Granger...”

“Draco!” Narcissa Malfoy stood at the top of the stairs, an ethereal figure in a flowing white negligee and dressing gown.”Let the girl go rinse her mouth and brush her teeth.”

Surprised, both Draco and Hermione stared at Lady Malfoy. There was nothing sweet or shallow in her voice, only practicality and knowledge.


	7. Proditio

“Kips!”

The small elf winked into the breakfast room.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Is Miss Hermione still in her room? Maybe she is unwell?”

“Miss Hermione is not on the Estate, Mistress.”

Simultaneously, a chair hit the marble ground with a loud clatter and paper rustled as a newspaper fell on the surface of the table.

Lucius stood his face white with fear and rage.

“What?”

The small creature shivered and bowed to its Master.

“The wards show that Miss Hermione has left the Estate at three thirty-two this morning.”

“In the middle of the night?” His voice was faint. “Why was I not alerted?”

Then louder.

“WHY was I not alerted?”

The elf cowered.

Lucius had actually never given order to be alerted should Hermione leave. She was here voluntarily; she knew what would happen should she leave. She would never compromise the peace.

But apparently she had.

“Lucius,” Narcissa put a soft hand on her husband’s arm. “Let us go to her room.”

Draco was already on his way out of the dining room and the first to hurry up the stairs, taking two or three steps at a time.

The door to her room was not open, but it was unlocked. The bed looked slept-in with slightly rumpled sheets, a dent in the pillow and one corner of the golden yellow duvet thrown back as if she had just gotten up. 

Her robes and Muggle clothes were still in the wardrobe and a quickly performed spell told them that no items had been removed.

Toiletry items, a few make up things and the hair care potions in golden glimmering flasks that Narcissa had gifted to her stood undisturbed in front of the mirror and on the edge of her built-in bathtub.

“It does not look like she ran away,” Narcissa remarked in a slow, pensive voice.

Lucius scoffed.

“Or she does not want it to look like she ran away.” He pushed his hand into his hair and caused a few strands to slip out of the ribbon at the nape of his neck. “The Dark Lord will not like this.”

His outward appearance remained relatively calm, but his eyes and a slight tremor in his voice belied his distress.

The disappearance of the Granger girl could jeopardise well-laid plans that ought not to be disturbed.

Draco’s eyes fell on the tall window.

“I will search the grounds, just in case.”

His mother had moved close to his father, to comfort and be comforted. He left the stairs and entrance hall behind him and exited into the gardens. The grass was still damp and a veil of fog wound around the group of trees by the lake.

Draco stilled and felt a calm dread settle on his shoulders.

Hermione Granger was a Mudblood and might not appreciate fine robes and regard anything beyond the absolute necessary as frippery, but even he had to admit that she was magical. And no witch in her right mind would run away and discard her wand while doing so.

 

***

 

As he had foreseen, his father was in the study, pacing at a frantic speed between the fire place and the portrait of Severus Snape.

He stopped abruptly when he became aware of his son in the doorway.

Draco took the opportunity to walk into the room without haste. He was very aware of the two pairs of eyes following his every move. When he reached the desk, he placed the slim piece of vine on its shiny surface.

“I do not think she has left voluntarily.”

His calm demeanour gave his words more force than agitated yelling and screaming could have ever done.

He was aware of movement in his peripheral vision as his godfather slumped in his painted armchair, his face covered with his hands.

“This is not good.”

Lucius looked no longer pale and aristocratic. His skin had taken on a greyish, sickly colour.

Severus’ portrait raised his head and with urgency and determination in his voice addressed his friend.

“Go to him. Go now, before whoever has taken her informs him. Be upfront, be enraged, offer yourself up for punishment.”

Lucius had already started dressing in his dark cloak and summoned his mask.

“Buy us some time, Lucius.”

He inclined his head in a jerky fashion, as if the dread he was feeling upon the situation they found themselves suddenly in had stiffened his bones and joints.

Even his Apparating sounded subdued.

As soon as the head of house had left the manor, Severus Snape jolted into action.

“Draco, have a comfortable portrait taken to the lab, something with a table and a chair in it will do.”

Draco snorted.

“Of course, an oil painting with table and chair to the lab. Anything else? Painted wine and fruit?”

“Don’t dawdle, boy! Let the elves look for something appropriate and then meet me in the lab with some of Hermione’s hair.”

“Will the lock that I carry in a locket above my heart suffice?”

Snape’s portrait was quite clearly not amused.

“Alright, alright. I’ll check her room. I’ll send a house elf to inform you, when your office painting has been installed in the lab.”

With that he swiftly left the study, calling for an elf to look through stored away paintings, as he was certain that no such picture adorned the walls of the manor.

Her room was not far and he felt a strange pang when entering. The open books on her vanity that was obviously not used for its intended purpose, the strewn-about quills and a half-eaten browning apple made the room — sad.

Shaking himself out of this unfamiliar mindset, he started for the bathroom in search of a bit of Hermione Granger. 

Hair.

Hairhairhair.

Her hair was everywhere. Always.

It stuck to her robe, accumulated in the corners of rooms with marble or parquet flooring and got into his way while trying to study a particularly rare book with her.

She was shedding hair like a bloody cat.

Why was there no hair when he needed it?

He had searched the bathroom for her hairbrush.

Every woman had a hairbrush, right?

Apparently not this one.

All he could find was a wide-toothed comb made of horn.

And not a single hair.

The next second he could have hit himself. There he was, mocking the witch for forgetting her magic once in a while.

“ _Accio_ Hermione’s hair.”

Three single, brown hairs floated from her pillow into his hand and he left her room with long strides in the direction of the manor’s potions laboratorium.

It did not even occur to him that he had used her first name.

***

 

The ropes bit into her numb flesh, sending small sparks of pain into her hands and arms.

Her mouth was dry and sticky as if she had been ill without proper care for a long time.

She remembered the small parchment origami bird that had desperately flung itself against her window last night. Had it been last night? Probably. She did not feel bad enough for having been unconscious for several days. But one never knew with magic...

She had opened the window and seen Ginny in front of the gates, obviously in great distress.

Hermione had grabbed her wand and ran down the stairs and out of the house.

Seeing Ginny like this, only hours after they had averted a new breakout of war had Hermione in a panic. If Ginny had lost her nerve and run away from the Zabinis, all hope was lost. 

Or maybe the Zabinis had hurt Ginny? Some followers might be overeager to please their Lord and punish her on their own volition.

Stupidly she had swung open the gate and stepped out of the wards.

And then nothing.

She was lying directly on a hard stone surface and where her arms and legs had not gone lifeless from lack of blood flow, she could feel her flesh growing unresponsive from cold.

Forcing herself not to panic, she took in her surroundings. It was a rather large cave; bones, rotting leftovers from week-old meals and ashes from burnt wood made it apparent that somebody or something lived in the inhospitable place.

There was a clatter of loose stones on stone, rolling down or sliding a short distance after being stirred by footsteps.

Fenrir Greyback rounded the corner and his mouth twisted into a caricature of a smile when he saw that Hermione was awake.

“There you are! And I thought you might have decided to die before we could have our fun.”

Hermione could not disguise her shock, when a woman rounded the corner of the cave’s entrance. Nymphadora Tonks. She latched onto Greyback’s arm.

“You promised she would not get hurt!”

“Get away from me, Metamorphmagus! You have served your purpose, now hold your tongue!”

“You said we would simply end the armistice and I would find justice for Remus’ death!” Her voice rose to hysterical heights. “You said she would not be hurt, that you wanted revenge for Remus as well!” She started tugging on his arm and he turned around, snarling in annoyance.

“I lied.”

He flung her from his arm and against the stone wall of the cave, where she hit her head with a sickening crunch.

Then she was still.

Hermione felt sick, no matter that Tonks must have impersonated Ginny in order for her to leave the manor of her own choice.

Greyback crouched down in front of Hermione, taking her chin in his filthy hand, yellow, ragged nails digging into her skin.

With a sudden movement of her head she dislodged his grip.

“What do you want, Greyback?”

“What I want? Many things. I want the promises the Dark Lord made for my pack to be fulfilled.”

He roughly rolled her onto her back and trailed a hand over the front of her nightgown.

“You have grown since I last had the pleasure to feel you, Mudblood.”

She fervently wished that she’d have worn one of her warm flannel pyjamas instead of the knee length nightgown.

“I want this ridiculous truce to end and have free reign to hunt on the battlefield.”

He straddled her and ripped her nightgown in half.

“It’s all your fault, you know? First you save the day by so eagerly stepping forward to suck cock and then you run away, overcome by shame. Or maybe the mean, mean Malfoys treated you badly?”

Although he was not in wolf form, his teeth felt dangerously sharp against her skin.

“But fret not, by the end of the week, the world as you know it will have ceased to exist.”

“Bastard!”

She tried to struggle, but the restraints and his weight on her made it impossible for her to have any effect on him.

He lunged forward, his upper body burying her and knocking the air from her lungs.

Hermione braced herself for a vicious attack, anticipating teeth to break her skin, paws to break bones and claws to rip flesh from flesh.

She could hardly breathe for all the stench that he was emanating. The attack did not come. Instead, his stiff body was heaved aside and Draco Malfoy stood over her.

“You look a mess, Granger.”

A quick _Finite Incantatem_ let the ropes fall away from her wrists and ankles and blood rushed back into her hands and feet.

And a bit friendlier:

“Can you stand?”

Hermione tried to make her useless hands for grasp the lapels of her thin dressing gown to draw it closed and cover herself.

Unsuccessful, she looks up at Draco.

“I am afraid not any time soon.”

He bent down, took the dressing gown in hand and secured it firmly with the tie around her waist. He quickly crossed the cave and performed a spell over Tonks’ still form, shaking his head to her unspoken question and returned to her side.

“You are really more trouble than anything else, Granger.

His voice belied his relief. If the guided Apparating potion would have taken any longer to brew... Seeing her underneath the beast after the strange dark tunnel had first sucked him in and then spit him out not three yards from her, had been horrifying.

“How do I know that you are you? I have been fooled by someone impersonating somebody I trust, only hours ago.”

He looked at her silently. Then he smiled.

“Good morning, Philippine!”

“You are annoying.” She gave him a relieved smile. “And I never thought I would ever say this, but I am glad it’s you!”

He held onto her limp hand and Apparated them away.


	8. Se réfugier

There was straw underneath her bottom when they materialised in a compact room with lime-plastered walls and bulky, primitive wooden furniture.

Draco helped her on top of one of the wooden benches next to the rough table. Hermione started flexing her fingers and watched him light a fire.

He scribbled something on a small piece of parchment and sent it into the flames, vanishing it instantly.

“What did you do?”

“I sent a message to my mother.”

“By floo?” her voice was alarmed upon this reckless stupidity.

He shook his head.

“Internal Floo network. It only accesses other Malfoy properties; nobody from the outside is able to breach the system.”

“Other Malfoy properties?” Hermione looked around. The accommodation appeared to be rather basic for a Malfoy property. “Where are we?”

“In the Master’s chamber of the first Malfoy Estate in all of Britain, our safe house.”

Hermione looked around, blinking. Vertical beams showed between the lime plaster of the walls. The room was not big by any means, but for 11th century standards it must have been downright decadent with the large fireplace, the wide wooden bed and numerous pieces of furniture.

“Marellus Malfoy?”

“The very same, Granger. You really retain everything you hear, don’t you?”

She shrugged.

“I try. What do we do now?”

Draco took a deep breath and released it slowly, hands on his hips. 

“I gather that you are still unable to use your limbs?”

“At the moment my hands and feet sting horribly.”

“Alright then. I hope you don’t weigh too much, Granger.”

“Hey!”

Draco strode over and lowered himself onto his knees to slip his arms under her knees and around her back. Struggling to lift her, he finally stood and walked the few steps to the bed with her, dumping her unceremoniously on top of it.

“Oof! What was that for? Why did you not just levitate me?”

His expression turned serious.

“We should not perform magic until we know it’s safe. Even here. During the war, there was dark magic that allowed us to monitor specific wands. It is not easy to perform and quite draining, but Severus thinks that whoever has kidnapped you might try to get you back at any cost. Apparating was risky enough; let’s not give them any more traces to follow.”

“I thought it was a bit too easy to get out of that cave. It was a shock to see Tonks involved.”

Draco nodded.

“Greyback was not so much of a shock.” He grew very still for a moment. “The way I found you in that cave... Did he hurt you? Did the beast touch you?”

Hermione could feel the colour rising in her cheeks until her forehead and ears glowed.

“Not any further than what you saw.”

She was still flexing her hands and wiggling her toes systematically, seemingly concentrating very hard on reinstating the regular blood flow.

He frowned.

“Look, if he bit you or scratched you or anything, you have to tell me.”

“He didn’t. Really, he didn’t.” She finally looked him in the eye. “You came just in time.”

Before he could reply or even think of a reply in the suddenly awkward atmosphere, the fire in the hearth came to life with a coughing sound to spit a cloth-wrapped parcel onto the stone slab in front of the fire place.

Draco scooped it up and opened it on top of the wooden table. There was a flask of pumpkin juice, steaming roast chicken, sandwiches, fruit and what looked like fairy cakes.

She had not been aware of it, but at the sight of food, her stomach grumbled.

Draco busied himself with retrieving three wooden plates with high edges or low bowls and what looked like wooden soup cups with a shiny strip of silver around the rim and two handles on either side.

He placed some chicken and a sandwich on two of the plates and handed her one.

“We’ll have to eat with our fingers. Mother forgot that people used to carry their cutlery around with them, somehow we never thought to place any here.”

“I have eaten with my fingers before, I will live, Malfoy,” she answered rolling her eyes while she took the plate from him, settling into a cross-legged position.

He snorted.

“I am sure you have.”

She chose not to react to the veiled insult and started eating instead, feeling famished after the cold hours in a damp cave.

Draco poured pumpkin juice into the drinking bowls and passed one to Hermione before placing the fruit and cakes on the third plate and hesitating for a second. It looked like he wanted to move to the bed, but then sat on the bench instead and started eating.

He waited for her to finish before he spoke again.

“There was a message from mother.”

She waited for him to continue and when he did not she grew impatient and pushed her plate away from her.

“What does it say? Why didn’t you mention it any earlier?”

He sighed.

“Father thinks that more than a few people might be involved in your kidnapping. The Werewolves are running wild. Several members of the inner circle have requested for the Dark Lord to end the truce. They will meet with the Light tomorrow at the stone circle near Inverurie.”

“So we just have to be there in time! When they see that I am back, they will have to keep the truce!”

Draco didn’t say anything.

“They have to, right?”

He looked away and crouched down to stoke the fire.

“Draco, you are frightening me!”

“I just hope they believe us. If the Dark Lord thinks this is a plot from the Light and my family is involved in it...” he trailed off.

“What will they do?” She could not manage more than a whisper.

He looked at her for a while.

“You are right. We’ll just have to be there in time.”

Ignoring her frown and questioning looks, he took her plate and put it on the table. He took off his shoes and sat down on the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the posters.

“What if they don’t believe us? It does not look good that Tonks was involved. What will they do, Malfoy?”

He looked at her with honest eyes.

“Do not worry about that. If they don’t believe us, neither of us will walk away tomorrow.”

She closed her eyes and nodded.

“They will not make it quick, will they?”

“No.”

She nodded once more, a rocking movement of her whole upper body.

The laws pertaining truces had been established to instil fear. Fear for the loved one, fear for the family and the whole country, should the armistice fail.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

“I don’t want to sleep tonight.”

His astonishment must have been written all over his face and Hermione backpedalled visibly as she realised just how her statement could be interpreted.

“I mean, I’d just like to rest a bit and talk, if that is alright with you.”

_Talk._

_Talk?_

_They were most probably going to die tomorrow and she wanted to bloody talk?_

Draco groaned and slumped against the poster.

“Fine then. Talk. Is that what you did with Snape? Sit around and discuss potions?”

“What has anything to do with what I did or did not do with Severus?”

“Nothing, nothing. What is it with you two anyhow? Isn’t he a bit...” _dead_ “...old for you?”

“He is... was not that old!”

“Twice your age!”

“As long as I am _of age_!”

“True. Nevertheless a bit strange for a girl in her early twenties. Did that start in school?”

“No it did not!” She spat.

“So, what made you turn to the evil Potions Master?”

“He is not evil! We were working together after my parents...” She blinked. “After I was all alone. We became comfortable around each other. Maybe I needed someone with a bit more experience in life. I will never regret being with him.”

Her voice sounded final and Draco desperately wanted to ease the tension and take his mind off what might happen the next day.

“He was still old,” he teased.

“ _I_ was born old.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“I know a peacock, who might disagree.”

For a moment she looked at him without understanding before blushing violently.

“You’ve seen that?”

She groaned and flung herself backward against the pillows, her hands pressed to her face to hide her embarrassment.

While eating, her nightgown had ridden up on her thighs and the satin robe was not full enough to cover her crossed legs. The dark, shadowed space between her legs had already been an enticing sight when she was sitting and eating. Now the space was not nearly as shadowy and dark anymore. She must have completely forgotten what she was wearing, splaying out on the bed in front of him the way she did.

His body reminded him that he was young. And very much alive at this point of time.

He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted the folds of his robes.

His body was adamant that it had been quite a while since he had had female company. Revels were sparse since the beginning of the truce and Pansy was sitting amongst redheads learning to knit hideous sweaters.

Hermione stared at the ceiling and stretched one of her legs toward him.

For the second time in not so many days he noted that she had very pretty, small feet.

His body insisted upon the need of procreation in the face of near certain death.

He watched his hand make its way to her ankle.

“Nice view you are giving me here, Granger.”

Before his hand could reach her skin, she snatched her foot away and sat up.

“Hands off, Malfoy! Did you expect me to fall on my back out of sheer gratitude?”

She sounded aggravated, as if this was far closer to the truth than she would want to admit to herself. He decided to push her a bit.

“And here I thought you were already on your back just a few moments ago.”

She placed a quick, well-aimed kick on his thigh.

“You are thoroughly annoying!”

“You are arrogant and self-centred!” 

They both must have moved without noticing as they found themselves suddenly close to each other.

“You are so uncultured!”

“You are stuck in the 15th century!”

They were leaning toward each other with narrowed eyes, supporting themselves with their arms on the mattress.

“You smell like honey.”

“...”

He looked at her mouth.

“ _What_?” this time it was more of a trembling whisper.

“Gods, I love your hair.”

This must have been a dream, since he would never admit such a preposterous thing while awake.

And then his hand was digging into the curls at the nape of her neck, pulled her head to the side and started suckling her neck.

Her hands were in his hair, too, drawing him closer, encouraging him to do whatever it was he seemed to have set his mind to.

“I love your hair, too.”

A very nice dream for sure.

He smiled against her skin and shifted his weight, making her topple to the side.

With some effort, she managed to pull his head away from her shoulder so she could look into his eyes.

“This is only for now; it cannot go any further tomorrow.”

He looked at her, his face expressionless but his breathing laboured. “Who the hell knows whether there will be tomorrow?”

She let go of his hair and he descended on her mouth, nipping and biting and licking.

He moved.

It was a quick, sharp turning of the hips, a minute adjustment to his legs and she could feel him fitting into the curves of her body.

Although his build was very slim, he was still taller than her and his weight on top of her made her open her legs further to accommodate him.

She could feel his lips curl into their kiss and he moved again and this time, she cried out into his mouth as his new position put continuous pressure on the most sensitive spot of her body.

He could feel her move to make space for him and his body aligned with hers as if they were two halves of the same, making a whole.

Lust hit him hard and low in his abdomen.

Draco sat up between her splayed knees and let his fingers trail along the insides of her thighs.

She squirmed and moved in those tiny, unconscious movements that could not be faked.

This was probably a tremendously bad idea. They had not dealt with what had happened at the last Death Eater meeting and letting the situation run wild would only complicate the future.

A voice in his head snorted upon his sudden surge of conscientiousness and reminded him that the future was uncertain at best.

He had taken too long in his contemplations for her. She was looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Her hands started trailing over her nightgown, sliding the silky material over the hot skin of her breasts until it was gathered around her upper body, easy to pull off over her head.

He jolted into action, hooking his fingers behind the waistband of her knickers and pulling them off when she lifted her hips. 

He had never undressed a girl without his wand and he felt both thrilled and unnerved by its slowness to reveal her. Draco grasped her ankles directing first one, then the other foot out of her undergarment and placed her feet on his shoulders.

Such delicate ankles.

He licked a line along the narrowest place just above her foot. 

He would love to place a little anklet there. With an ‘M’ dangling from it to the side. No, not an ‘M’. A dragon. Yes. A dragon in full flight.

She shivered at the unusual attention her feet were receiving and he tried again, with the other ankle.

Hermione arched her back and suddenly hooked her feet around each other behind his neck, pulling him down to her.

He let himself be drawn toward her. Her breath was quick and hot on his face and he could feel her wet and scalding against his erection.

They were both hungry.

He reached around her and between their bodies. She opened easily at his touch, jerking her hips sharply when he spread her moisture upward, grazing her clit.

This was not the time to be gentle for either one of them. Draco buried himself in her and she shrieked when he the place deep inside her and could not go further.

She was urging him on, scratching and clawing at his sides, trying to pull him in further.

Everything about her was hot as if a fever was running through her body. His own skin warmed at the contact with her and he wondered how he could ever feel warm again without her.

She did not flutter around him. 

She clamped down without warning and keened while her nails dug ever harder into his flesh.

He grasped her shoulder and pulled her down while he thrust up.

She begged him, no, demanded that he go harder and faster and oh gods it had been so long.

His vision was swimming and he had to close his eyes to be able to comply with her wishes.

He kissed her blindly and she bit down on his lip. 

Hard.

She let him taste the copper of his blood and it sang to him. He gave one deep thrust impaling her and she cried out, her body going rigid.

He could feel her closing and opening around his cock and then he lost himself in her.

Very faintly he remembered through the red haze of his orgasm that they could not cast a contraceptive charm, that there were no potions here and that it might not matter at all by this time tomorrow.

After a long while of breathing and resting on her soft body and just _being_ , he finally slid out of her and rolled to the side.

He desperately wanted to make the next day go away. He willed time to go slower. Maybe they could simply stay here. That’s what the fortified tower was for after all.

But he knew that his parents would have to pay the price for that first. And then her friends. And then all of wizardkind.

“What are we going to do tomorrow?”

He held her to his chest. So tightly that she would be unable to rise up and look at him should she try to do so.

“We will not be able to Apparate directly into the stone circle; the Dark Lord always sets anti-Apparition wards.”

He felt her move her head in acknowledgement.

“We will have to walk at least five hundred metres.”

For a long while she did not respond.

“Five hundred metres can be very long.”

He could feel her warm breath on his skin.

“Yes. They can.”


	9. Conventus

He woke up to an aching back and a heavy leg draped over his knees. For a moment, Draco had no idea what had woken him, but then he saw the flames of the Floo dying down and a small parchment on the stone slab in front of the hearth.

Groggily he disentangled his body from Hermione’s sleep-heavy arms and legs and padded over to pick up the message. The plan of not sleeping had obviously not been successful.

_**Wake up!** _

The parchment stated in tall, bold letters. 

And a little smaller underneath;

_Good morning, son._

It was time.

He moved over to the bed and picked up his clothes and robes from where he had discarded them on the floor.

After a second of thought, he decided to forego his robes entirely and wear his cloak directly over his trousers and shirt. He might need to be able to move freely later on.

When he could no longer postpone waking her he reached out to shake her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not really loud enough to wake her.

Hermione moved anyhow, looking bleary eyed and rumpled with her sleep-tousled hair and lines from creases in the bed linen marring her cheeks.

“Hey.”

He didn’t say anything for a while and she sat up, holding the fur bed spread to her body.

“It is time, isn’t it?”

He nodded and she stood slowly, not letting go of the bed spread. She looked down at something on the floor and then turned to Draco.

“Even if we take the risk and transfigure my night gown and house robe into something, it won’t be warm enough or even be enough material for anything decent.”

His forehead wrinkled.

“You could borrow my robes; I decided not to wear them today. Or... Wait a minute.”

He quickly walked to a large wooden chest at the foot of the bed and pushed the lid up.

She watched him disappearing halfway into the chest, rummaging around Merlin-knows-what.

“There we go!” Came his muffled exclamation from the coffer.

He emerged with what looked like a shapeless piece of blue linen and another darker, thicker one.

He threw it in her general direction, the garments, if that’s indeed what they were, landing on the bed in a messy pile.

“It’s a bit old-fashioned but it should keep you warm.”

When Hermione looked at the robes without comprehension, he encouraged her impatiently.

“Come on! The lighter one first, the darker one on top. Chop-chop!”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around. Last night doesn’t change a thing. We’ve got broad daylight now and you have to turn around.”

Draco rolled his eyes and turned to face the table.

“I really think we have more important things to worry about then your modesty.”

“Says the man who woke me up after dressing!”

“Touché.”

There was some rustling of fabric and a few muttered words of frustration as she appeared to struggle into the unfamiliar clothes.

“Okay, you can turn back now.”

She was a vision of flowing blue robes and wild chestnut hair. The undertunic and sleeveless dress on top looked softer and more feminine on her than any of the flittery organza robes his mother had insisted upon.

He swallowed.

“Looks like something my great-aunt Cassiopeia might wear.” _Although she will never make those robes look that good._ “You will fit right in. Fashion does change, but not all that much. Nobody will notice that they’re a few hundred years old.”

He tried to sound cheerful and teasing.

Hermione’s eyes grew very large.

“Are you trying to tell me that these robes are from the 11th century?”

Draco shrugged.

“Probably not.”

Hermione relaxed. 

“Oh. Good.”

She would have been horribly afraid to rip something that precious.

“Probably 12th century. After that, the family had moved out of here and lived at the manor.”

“What?” She screeched.

“Granger. You are a witch. Mending charms, conservation charms, anti-moth- charms... Stop fussing, we have to get going.”

Hermione let go of the hem of her sleeve and straightened.

“Nice to hear that you think I am a witch,” she mumbled but he could see fear behind her brave facade.

She walked over to him and put a hand on his arm so he could Apparate both of them out of the building.

Before he could turn on the spot, he was interrupted.

“Draco?”

He looked at her anxious face.

“It was not all that bad being a hostage of your family. Thank you.”

He smiled a bit.

“It was not all that bad having you as a hostage.”

To hell with broad daylight.

He leaned down and kissed her before she could object and only when they were both breathless and time was pressing, he let go of her mouth and vanished both of them from the homely room where his ancestors had set up home so long ago.

 

***

 

They held onto each other for several moments longer than necessary to regain their bearings after Apparating.

Draco had concentrated on the circle of standing stones in the isolation of the Aberdeenshire countryside. The anti-Apparition wards had kept them away from the immediate location as expected.

Open fields lay beautifully in the waning afternoon light. 

No tree, shrub or building obscured the view in any way.

The werewolf must have been able to smell them from miles away. There was only a short, angry growl a split second before he pounced on the pair and made them fall to the muddy ground.

Claw-like hands with broken fingernails tore and scratched erratically at skin and clothes, trying to clear the way to sink teeth into flesh.

Breath, rancid with the odour of foul meat and congealed blood hit Draco’s face. His wand was trapped between his and the werewolf’s body. Determined not to let the beast win easily, Draco kept struggling against the weight on top of him staring into the blood-shot, glassy eyes above him.

The wolf opened his fangs wide and threw his head back to gain momentum for the bite.

Out of pure instinct, Draco closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

It never came.

The weight was still on him like a sack of potatoes, but the body was limp and still.

“That’s a life-debt repaid very quickly.”

Hermione helped to roll the dead wolf off of Draco and extended a hand to help him stand.

“Let’s try not to make this a habit.”

Draco kept her hand in his and gestured with his left toward a farm outbuilding maybe fifty metres away.

“Run.”

She gathered her robes and ran at his side, being slightly pulled along.

“Do you think there are more?”

Her voice was out of breath when they finally took shelter behind the wall of the farm shed.

“Without any doubt.” He carefully looked around the corner of the shed. No werewolves so far. “They are probably patrolling around the wards.”

Hermione bent down and started gathering a few items off the ground. Squatting down, she let some pebbles fall into the triangle of her skirt between her legs. She concentrated hard, biting her lip ferociously while waving her wand over the small pieces of stone.

A few moments later she handed Draco several small silver daggers. 

Small enough to carry around comfortably, they were still big enough to do damage.

“This will not kill them, will it?” He asked, doubt evident in his voice.

“No, it’s not real silver, just transfigured metal; it does not have all the properties of silver. But it will hurt like hell and slow them down.”

“How good are you at throwing these?”

She blinked up at him.

“I have no idea. I will have to stab them, I reckon.”

The look in his eyes was unreadable.

“Try not to let them get close enough for stabbing in the first place.”

Her head snapped up and he was surprised to see a startled look on her face.

“Yes.” She swallowed visibly. “Yes, I will do my best.”

“Okay Granger.” He took her hand into his own. “We will run now. Have your wand ready and be vigilant.”

Her lips twitched.

“At all times, yes.”

He was a bit annoyed at her attempt at humour at this time but decided to ignore it.

“Come on, then. Let’s save the world.”

_That’s what you usually do._

They ran.

He could feel her smaller hand in his and the loose earth of the field under his feet. Idly his mind supplied that it was interesting how his own harsh breathing and the wind drowned out any other sound that could alert him to an approaching werewolf. He tried to cast glances left and right but was afraid to miss rocks or any other obstacle that might be in the way of their run.

He could already see the shimmering dome of Muggle-repellent charms and notice me not spells.

Any tourist deciding to make his way to the Aquhorthies standing stones would suddenly change his mind and decide that the magnificent steles of pink granite were not as interesting as they had previously thought.

Through the spells he could see the wavering, dark shapes of the assembled Death Eaters.

A black, living mass filling the circle.

The absurdity of the situation hit him.

They were running from werewolves to the questionable safety of a summons of the Dark Lord.

He had not felt the pain of his Master calling him earlier, which told him that he was probably already regarded as a traitor.

Running from the lone wolf into the den of the pack.

A shout or rather a angry half-bark made it through the background noise of his own breathing, blood rushing through his ears, wind and his feet hitting the ground , the impact vibrating and resonating through his body.

He threw a sweeping curse over his shoulder in the general direction of the sound and was satisfied to hear a surprised yelp and the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Hermione behind him shouted something and another pained cry told him that she had taken out another werewolf guard. One very close to him and he still had not noticed.

The stone circle was much closer now, but his whole body was hurting. His lungs did not seem to be able to take in enough air to sustain him. One of his next steps would turn into a stumble, taking him down and Hermione with him.

One of the tall steles was very large and very near now. In a few seconds he would be close enough to touch the stone and break through the protective charms.

The dark forms within the circle had already taken their places in the formal circle. The inner circle literally taking up the front row, then several rings of Death Eaters of descending rank.

They would have to make it through at least 5 rows of human bodies.

He could already feel the ripple of magic radiating from the wards when he heard the gasp behind him.

It was quite a soft and quick sound, but so full of astonished hurt that it made his stomach drop.

Draco turned around and at the same time took a step in the direction they had come from, only to collide with the falling body of Hermione Granger.

_No!_

_Not now, not when they were so close!_

_His heart felt torn from his chest._

_Not ever._

_Please._

Hermione was heavy in his arms, held upright by leaning against him. He could not cradle her and fight the attacker at once. 

He could see that the werewolf had blue eyes. 

Too close.

The wolf leapt.

The colliding body drove both of them into the stele a metre behind them. His skull gave a worrying sound and for a second, Draco only saw black blotches in between bright stars.

And then there was absence of claws on his neck and even the girl in his arms seemed much easier to hold up.

An anguished howl rang through the twilight. He could feel Hermione clutching his robes with her full weight, making his shoulder hurt where the fabric bit into him. When his vision cleared, he could see the werewolf twisting and turning on the ground, screaming in agony. The handle of a short silver dagger protruded from his abdomen. The werewolf’s hands were clawing at the sharp object only to withdraw again and again when the transfigured silver burned him.

He leaned against the stone behind him and looked into the drawn and pale face of the witch in his arms. Her skin was ashen and he could see a fine sheen of sweat forming.

“Can you walk?”

Speaking was obviously difficult so she merely inclined her head in a shaky nod.

“We really have to stop with the life debts.”

Her lips curled ever so minutely. 

“Okay,” she breathed.

Draco pressed his lips to hers for one shocking moment and then flung both of them around the corner of the stone and through the wards.

Into the crowd of people that deemed them traitors.

After a few seconds of stunned confusion, the shouting and pushing and grappling for wands started.

Draco pulled and pushed Hermione past dumbfounded Death Eaters, who were not quick enough in their response to the unexpected intrusion.

He could already see the empty space in the middle of the circle in between the gap of two black-clad shoulders.

The hex hit him from the side and sliced through his personal shields. With his last shred of strength and willpower, he pushed Hermione through the gap and saw her stumble onto the grass where the Dark Lord was stood.

Then everything went black.


	10. Initium

Hermione could feel Draco give her a hard push and when the moderate resistance of people standing in her way suddenly disappeared she went falling and tumbling onto the grassy ground inside the stone circle.

Voldemort was there, right in front of her and he looked at her in the same way he might observe a turtle fallen on its back.

There was no time and since nobody seemed to react—yet—she felt the urgent need to state the obvious as she was at a loss as to What. To. Do.

She crawled forward and to the shock of all present, grabbed the robes of the Dark Lord.

“I am here! Please! I am here!”

Voldemort would have looked down his nose at her, but as he did not possess one, it made his eyes appear a bit cross-eyed.

“You are not saying.”

Several of the Death Eaters closest to Voldemort started to fidget and seemed to be eager to prove their loyalty, so Hermione rushed on, filling the silence with her urgent words.

“I did not run away, Greyback abducted me! I did not leave voluntarily.”

Voldemort began to turn away, tugging sharply at his robes still in her grasp.

“You have to keep the armistice! The magic of the truce would unleash hell if you broke it now!”

Without warning or prior indication, Voldemort’s _Legilimency_ slammed into her mind, painful in ways neither Dumbledore nor Severus had been. 

Voldemort tore into her mind before she could hope to raise her barriers. He broke into the house of her being, trespassing and violating along the way. He flung doors open that she usually kept carefully closed.

Cupboards were emptied of precious souvenirs and drawers upturned and their contents flung across rooms.

Hogwarts.

Her parent’s house.

Crookshanks.

Battles.

And then.

Victor.

Severus.

Draco.

Greyback.

Here Voldemort lingered and she could feel his own mind poke and prod and _touch_.

After what seemed like an eternity, he let go.

Though the invasion had ceased, the pain lingered, then flared and she fell into comforting darkness.

 

***

 

When she woke, there were crisp white cotton sheets and silence and sunlight bathing her bandaged hands on top of the duvet.

Narcissa Malfoy stood near the window, as always the likeness of an angel in flawless pale silver robes.

The perfect angel wrung her hands in distress.

“Are we back to war?”

Narcissa started at the sound of Hermione’s voice and hurried over to her bed. Sitting down at the edge, she re-arranged the duvet that had fallen down when Hermione had tried to sit up.

“War?” Narcissa smoothed Hermione’s hair and tucked it gently behind her ears. “There is no war. We have an armistice.”

Hermione deflated back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

It had not been in vain.

“Still lazing about in bed, Granger?”

Draco stood leaning against the door jamb, looking a bit worse for wear, his left arm in a sling around his neck and shoulder.

Narcissa stood and walked to the door, laying a soft hand on her son’s cheek, then turned around to Hermione.

“I will see you in the afternoon, Hermione. Would you care for some tea and scones?”

Hermione blinked.

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa smiled her faint smile and left in a trail of pastel robes.

There was a long stretch of silence, in which Hermione fidgeted and fiddled with the white duvet cover.

“How did we survive this?”

Draco stood a bit straighter.

“Father.” Hermione looked at him, her question evident. “The Dark Lord performed _Legilimency_ on you and he must have been anything but tentative.” He looked away. “I could hear you scream.” 

Hearing her had been decidedly different from attending revels or raids in the past. Draco wondered whether the Dark Lord knew how dangerous this armistice really was. Before the war would start over, Draco would retread to Normandy. New Zealand also sounded rather lovely.

“You passed out and father managed to claim you as his hostage again. Being responsible for your wellbeing and all.”

Hermione looked at him and her peaceful room at Malfoy Manor.

“So this is it then? We ignore what happened and continue on for the next one and a half years?”

“One and three quarters of a year.” 

She rolled her eyes.

Suddenly he grinned.

“I still have several life debts and a Philomena hanging over your head.”

“I beg to differ; I think we are even life debt wise.”

She folded her arms in front of her and tried to look defiant.

It hurt a bit where she could still feel the phantom touch of Voldemort in her mind.

He shrugged and leaned forward.

His breath tickled her when he whispered into her ear. Hermione shuddered a little when his words washed over her.

“The Philomena is the best one anyhow.”

He knew exactly what he would be asking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story had been written for Draco Big Bang 2010. If you would like to see the artwork for this story, the original version and the wonderful art by the extremely talented Lhys are archived here: 
> 
> http:// dracobigbang. accio. nu /fics /14. htm
> 
> Please take out spaces 
> 
> The tale ends here or rather, the future can begin. I had planned to write a sequel but in the meantime I had another child and moved several times between continents. Honestly, I am not sure whether I will ever be able to get to that.
> 
> I would like to thank everyone, who followed this story, especially those, who took the time to review!


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